Confessional
Jan. 27th, 2007 12:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ravenOh, I don't know where to start, I really don't. Um, yesterday I got up in the morning, had breakfast, got dressed, and before I left the house I dug out some perfume - light, spritzy stuff I got in the States - and two pairs of stud earrings. I've still got them in now: a pair of red stones, because I always have a touch of red on me somewhere, and black ones, because I was wearing a plain black t-shirt.
This isn't as trivial as it appears. If I look back at my LJ, which is actually a wonderful tool to have for these things, my rate of updating seems to have dropped to almost zero somewhere near the end of December and not picked up since. It's now January 27th - well, it will be in fifteen minutes - and I'm now, at last, beginning to be able to talk about it. I mean, I was pretty blue over Christmas, and I rememeber writing a long post of sour-grapes irritation on Christmas Day, but after that everything just stopped. I went away, and I did have a good time, most of the time, but I got back to Oxford, was initially jet-lagged, and the jet-lag, which wasn't jet-lag, didn't go away and everything went to hell.
I can't quite believe that it took me two weeks to notice that something was seriously wrong. It's very hard to describe it, now, but it was sort of like watching the world through cotton wool, with two inches of nothingness between me and my sensory perception. That's what I said at the time, I think. I couldn't sleep not because I couldn't sleep but because I was terrified of being alone in my head - as long as I was awake and doing something I didn't have to face the dark behind my eyes - and not sleeping at night meant sporadic sleeping during the day, and general happy stuff like an inability to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes at a time. And then the weird feeling of really, honestly, not caring about anything, including the passage of time, which has done strange things to my memory of the whole of first week, because all the days seem to have happened at once.
And yet I was surprised, when I fell asleep one morning at six and got up at ten and went to see the college medics, to be asked sincerely, "What do you think it is?"
I knew. But I didn't know. And actually getting the external validation that there is something wrong makes it worse, and worse than that, the narrow-eyed concern that comes with it; the constant, hollow assurances that I don't live alone and I will keep myself away from kitchen knives and first-floor windows. But here's the thing: I've had this before. I had this in Trinity, and I had it over the summer, and the only difference is in intensity. I knew that, and I didn't know it, and I went home very, very frightened.
Which really wasn't the idea, was it? But the days that came after that were worse, in that I knew there was something wrong with me, and I knew what it was, and I was beginning to lose control of my head, and wasn't able to feel anything except brief nova bursts of anxiety. And this is the ridiculously meta-referential way my brain works, that the thing that was making me scared and depressed was the fact I was scared and had depression. Er, yay? But I do think the phrase "I have clinical depression" does a lot of work - it means that I am a bright, silly, witty human being who likes writing and philosophy and sushi and Snow Patrol and winter days in Oxford, and am still that person, oh yes.
Then on Wednesday I woke up at nine am, having slept all night, and took a shower, and felt better. And that was that. I don't mean to trivialise all that came above, because it wasn't trivial. It was awful. It was oblivion with just enough lucidity to throw the rest into sharp, bleak relief, and it was killing me. I couldn't write. This is so wanky-pretentious I can't believe it, but it was the very fact I couldn't throw together prose that drove me to seeking medical help. Every word I wrote came out wrong, flat and anodyne, and that hasn't ever happened before. (I can always write something. Fiction, journal entries, and in the last resort, academic writing, but losing my footing on footnotes is new to me.) This type of low mood has happened before, though; I can see echoes of it in my LJ entries for June, and again in August, but not as bad as this.
But I know something now. I'm not floundering away in the dark, because I know that either I have an illness, an unusual cyclic type of clinical depression, or this is a facet of my personality. (I don't know what that means, what work that distinction actually does, but a discussed on the inherent relativity of mental health can wait for another decade.) But I have it, and I can deal with it. The pattern seems established - it comes on, lingers for some time, usually about a month, and then leaves as mysteriously as it came. It's not seasonal affective disorder, as it appears to have manifested in June, and it's not a good idea to treat it with medication, they tell me; the fact that I spend three quarters of the time out of it is a good thing that we shouldn't mess with. And I concur.
It will happen again, they tell me. But next time I'll know, and I won't be scared.
So that's it. That's why I haven't been here very much, and haven't been talking when I have been here. A very few of you knew about this already, and I wanted to thank you in public, because you kept me held together at a hideously low point: the knowledge that you were out there, listening, stopped me from dissolving out of fear. Thank you.
And now I'm here again, and I'm feeling better today than I did yesterday and better yet than the day before. I'm getting there, back up to the surface bit by bit, and it's the most extraordinary experience. It's like waking up after a month asleep, and it's impossible to describe well, but oh, god, it's like rediscovering the whole world. I'm walking through the gorgeous winter days with my mouth open at the beauty of the architecture, the sky, the colours, the music, the food. This afternoon, I had a set of mental evaluations - the GPs declared me uncrazy, yay - and I had to go and inform my personal tutor of all this, but I had an hour to kill, so I went to a café and bought filter coffee and read a couple of chapters for this week's International Relations essay. And it was perfect, sitting there in the warm afternoon light finding something interesting. I'd forgotten what that felt like.
My tutor, once I'd told him, was very good about the whole thing, and somehow or other got to telling me about a talk Jack Straw gave in Oxford yesterday. Apparently he opened the floor for questions and some students near the front chanted, "Rubbish!" And before he could go on, they started singing, "Rubbish, nonsense, rubbish!" only with a cappella harmonies. At which point my tutor actually started doing the harmonies and I was almost crying with laughter.
Ah, yes, Cerberus, that's how he got on to talking about it. I've missed so much, through this; I wasn't able to blog about my first event as reigning Triarch of Cerberus (we also tried "incumbent Triarch", but "reigning" is so much better), which went off marvellously, and also I went to a Slovakian cocktail bar for James's birthday and I wanted to express my bemusement (a Slovakian cocktail bar? is it the only one in the world? I asked the party in general, and James's flatmate Johannes said, "No, but in Slovakia they just call them cocktail bars") and I just couldn't.
Oh, god, I've missed the world. I've barely been functioning, and now I'm actually feeling myself rising up through the murk to the point where I care enough about my life to make sure my earrings match and walk out into the sunshine. Or the snow; the other night I think I was starting to come out of it without quite realising, and in the morning I realised I'd actually written an LJ entry and it had contained real writing. If I hadn't written that, I would have suspected it was all a dream, because by morning the snow was gone. It lingers, eerily, only in the two graveyards, in flashes of white on the stones at St Cross and Mary Magdalene.
Today, January 26th, is India's Republic Day. I am twenty years and one week old, and for the first time I'm an Indian citizen on Republic Day. I'm one of the billion people in the world's largest democracy, and one of another one besides. That's a wonderful thought. And beyond that, I'm nearly myself again. I'm reserved and silly and over-analytical to a fault, but I'm a real person with passion in her prose, and I won't lose my world again. This will happen again, but I'll be ready for it.
This isn't as trivial as it appears. If I look back at my LJ, which is actually a wonderful tool to have for these things, my rate of updating seems to have dropped to almost zero somewhere near the end of December and not picked up since. It's now January 27th - well, it will be in fifteen minutes - and I'm now, at last, beginning to be able to talk about it. I mean, I was pretty blue over Christmas, and I rememeber writing a long post of sour-grapes irritation on Christmas Day, but after that everything just stopped. I went away, and I did have a good time, most of the time, but I got back to Oxford, was initially jet-lagged, and the jet-lag, which wasn't jet-lag, didn't go away and everything went to hell.
I can't quite believe that it took me two weeks to notice that something was seriously wrong. It's very hard to describe it, now, but it was sort of like watching the world through cotton wool, with two inches of nothingness between me and my sensory perception. That's what I said at the time, I think. I couldn't sleep not because I couldn't sleep but because I was terrified of being alone in my head - as long as I was awake and doing something I didn't have to face the dark behind my eyes - and not sleeping at night meant sporadic sleeping during the day, and general happy stuff like an inability to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes at a time. And then the weird feeling of really, honestly, not caring about anything, including the passage of time, which has done strange things to my memory of the whole of first week, because all the days seem to have happened at once.
And yet I was surprised, when I fell asleep one morning at six and got up at ten and went to see the college medics, to be asked sincerely, "What do you think it is?"
I knew. But I didn't know. And actually getting the external validation that there is something wrong makes it worse, and worse than that, the narrow-eyed concern that comes with it; the constant, hollow assurances that I don't live alone and I will keep myself away from kitchen knives and first-floor windows. But here's the thing: I've had this before. I had this in Trinity, and I had it over the summer, and the only difference is in intensity. I knew that, and I didn't know it, and I went home very, very frightened.
Which really wasn't the idea, was it? But the days that came after that were worse, in that I knew there was something wrong with me, and I knew what it was, and I was beginning to lose control of my head, and wasn't able to feel anything except brief nova bursts of anxiety. And this is the ridiculously meta-referential way my brain works, that the thing that was making me scared and depressed was the fact I was scared and had depression. Er, yay? But I do think the phrase "I have clinical depression" does a lot of work - it means that I am a bright, silly, witty human being who likes writing and philosophy and sushi and Snow Patrol and winter days in Oxford, and am still that person, oh yes.
Then on Wednesday I woke up at nine am, having slept all night, and took a shower, and felt better. And that was that. I don't mean to trivialise all that came above, because it wasn't trivial. It was awful. It was oblivion with just enough lucidity to throw the rest into sharp, bleak relief, and it was killing me. I couldn't write. This is so wanky-pretentious I can't believe it, but it was the very fact I couldn't throw together prose that drove me to seeking medical help. Every word I wrote came out wrong, flat and anodyne, and that hasn't ever happened before. (I can always write something. Fiction, journal entries, and in the last resort, academic writing, but losing my footing on footnotes is new to me.) This type of low mood has happened before, though; I can see echoes of it in my LJ entries for June, and again in August, but not as bad as this.
But I know something now. I'm not floundering away in the dark, because I know that either I have an illness, an unusual cyclic type of clinical depression, or this is a facet of my personality. (I don't know what that means, what work that distinction actually does, but a discussed on the inherent relativity of mental health can wait for another decade.) But I have it, and I can deal with it. The pattern seems established - it comes on, lingers for some time, usually about a month, and then leaves as mysteriously as it came. It's not seasonal affective disorder, as it appears to have manifested in June, and it's not a good idea to treat it with medication, they tell me; the fact that I spend three quarters of the time out of it is a good thing that we shouldn't mess with. And I concur.
It will happen again, they tell me. But next time I'll know, and I won't be scared.
So that's it. That's why I haven't been here very much, and haven't been talking when I have been here. A very few of you knew about this already, and I wanted to thank you in public, because you kept me held together at a hideously low point: the knowledge that you were out there, listening, stopped me from dissolving out of fear. Thank you.
And now I'm here again, and I'm feeling better today than I did yesterday and better yet than the day before. I'm getting there, back up to the surface bit by bit, and it's the most extraordinary experience. It's like waking up after a month asleep, and it's impossible to describe well, but oh, god, it's like rediscovering the whole world. I'm walking through the gorgeous winter days with my mouth open at the beauty of the architecture, the sky, the colours, the music, the food. This afternoon, I had a set of mental evaluations - the GPs declared me uncrazy, yay - and I had to go and inform my personal tutor of all this, but I had an hour to kill, so I went to a café and bought filter coffee and read a couple of chapters for this week's International Relations essay. And it was perfect, sitting there in the warm afternoon light finding something interesting. I'd forgotten what that felt like.
My tutor, once I'd told him, was very good about the whole thing, and somehow or other got to telling me about a talk Jack Straw gave in Oxford yesterday. Apparently he opened the floor for questions and some students near the front chanted, "Rubbish!" And before he could go on, they started singing, "Rubbish, nonsense, rubbish!" only with a cappella harmonies. At which point my tutor actually started doing the harmonies and I was almost crying with laughter.
Ah, yes, Cerberus, that's how he got on to talking about it. I've missed so much, through this; I wasn't able to blog about my first event as reigning Triarch of Cerberus (we also tried "incumbent Triarch", but "reigning" is so much better), which went off marvellously, and also I went to a Slovakian cocktail bar for James's birthday and I wanted to express my bemusement (a Slovakian cocktail bar? is it the only one in the world? I asked the party in general, and James's flatmate Johannes said, "No, but in Slovakia they just call them cocktail bars") and I just couldn't.
Oh, god, I've missed the world. I've barely been functioning, and now I'm actually feeling myself rising up through the murk to the point where I care enough about my life to make sure my earrings match and walk out into the sunshine. Or the snow; the other night I think I was starting to come out of it without quite realising, and in the morning I realised I'd actually written an LJ entry and it had contained real writing. If I hadn't written that, I would have suspected it was all a dream, because by morning the snow was gone. It lingers, eerily, only in the two graveyards, in flashes of white on the stones at St Cross and Mary Magdalene.
Today, January 26th, is India's Republic Day. I am twenty years and one week old, and for the first time I'm an Indian citizen on Republic Day. I'm one of the billion people in the world's largest democracy, and one of another one besides. That's a wonderful thought. And beyond that, I'm nearly myself again. I'm reserved and silly and over-analytical to a fault, but I'm a real person with passion in her prose, and I won't lose my world again. This will happen again, but I'll be ready for it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2007-01-28 10:46 pm (UTC)